


January

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, and sexy-times, set in january 1832, way happier than hotel california so i guess this is an apology to anyone who reads that, written for hath and martina, yaaay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“There is nothing I would ask of you,” Grantaire says, because it is the truth: he could never ask this man for anything. He can only hope to be useful, one day.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	January

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sacchan90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sacchan90/gifts), [Hathanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hathanta/gifts).



> This is for Martina and Hath, who are wonderful

It is January and the streets are freezing, and Grantaire’s nose is gushing blood after meeting with an elbow. It is just as well: his assailant’s own nose had met with Grantaire’s fist, and he was decidedly less happy about that. He is wailing on the ground. Grantaire is grinning.

He welcomes the pain, and the biting cold, and the two men lying at his feet, bleeding and broken just like him. He welcomes it all.

One of them gets up, but only to stagger away, muttering curses: he is drunk as well as battered, and he almost collides with the figure standing near the door-way to the wine-shop they had been fighting outside: Grantaire stops short in his tracks, because he had not known that they were being watched, had not known someone else was present.

If it is the police, he is in trouble, and while he usually welcomes trouble like an old friend, at this very moment he would rather not have too much attention from official forces on him.

But it is not a dog of the law stepping out of the shadows: the moonlight hits golden hair and stern eyes instead, and Grantaire’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. This is even worse than if it had been an officer. He grimaces, and then quickly hides it behind the same grin as before.

“Apollo!” he greets, swaying a little. He isn’t drunk, not tonight, not after burning it out of his system like this, with fists and blood. He isn’t drunk, but it is easier if he pretends that he is. “Fancy seeing you here – do you frequent alley-ways a lot? I had no idea.”

“I heard sounds of fighting,” his voice is bland, too bland, because if there is one thing Enjolras never is, it is neutral. His tone shows neither contempt nor admiration, and that makes Grantaire hesitate more than anything else. “I came to see what was going on, but it appears that you had no need of assistance.”

His hand is empty without a bottle. He waves it in a dismissive gesture instead. “And quite right. I cannot do much, but fight I can.”

That actually gets him a frown: it feels close to a victory. That is a rather sad notion, but there it is. The last of his adversaries gets to his feet with some difficulty and spits in his general direction, muttering curses under his breath as he too staggers away: Grantaire rather thinks that one is going to come back for more. Next time he himself may be too drunk to do as well as he had tonight.

He shrugs off the thought. It is no matter. Next time may not be until summer, and if the man before him goes through with his plans, a few bruises are the least Grantaire will have to worry about.

But he finds that he is too sober for thoughts like that, so he turns his attention back to the only remaining person in the ally aside from himself. It is all too easy to do so: it is Enjolras after all.

“You are hurt,” said man says, walking forward quick as a cat, his hand cradling Grantaire’s so suddenly, careful as he inspects the torn skin over his knuckles: the touch sends warmth through Grantaire’s body like no spirit ever could.

“It is fine,” he mumbles, quickly pulling away lets he is overcome and reveals something he would rather not the other man know. “I have things that goes a long way to numb the pain.” There is a pipe with his name on it back at Jehan’s lodgings, and if Jehan is not home, there is brandy stacked under his own bed, half-empty bottles for all-empty days. Which is every day. And every night – especially in January. The streets get so cold, in January.

Enjolras is, if possible, frowning even more now.

“Numb the pain, but perhaps not an infection,” he protests, and ah, there is irritation in his voice now, Grantaire can recognize it again, hear the familiar undertone. It is like an old friend, come back to play.

“Combeferre has left some bandages with me,” Enjolras says then, and Grantaire cannot breathe, the cold air of January burning his lungs. “And I rather think I can wrap them better than you can: you look to have used both fists.”

“There were two of them,” Grantaire replies as if on automatic, and then. “But, truly Enjolras, I am fine, I can merely…”

“I insist,” Enjolras says, and when Enjolras says that there is nothing for anyone to do but go along: he is being pulled down the streets of Paris, heart hammering in panic, searching his brain for an excuse: Enjolras has a light grip on his upper-arm, as if he thinks Grantaire would suddenly think to run away, which is ridiculous, except that is exactly what he would be doing if he wasn’t almost a prisoner, and he briefly wonders if he could make their speaker for the people let him go if he said that analogy out loud, and started talking about the storming of the Bastille and the unfairness of the court and the sad lives of the prisoners of today, but then they are standing in front of Enjolras door and he is being pushed gently inside. And it seems too late for protests against common kindness.

It is not a place Enjolras frequents often, except to sleep and occasionally work, Grantaire can tell: as such the room is not kept warm either, like many who could afford would in the winter-months, but it is January and therefore cold outside, and the protection of walls means he shakes of the cold almost as soon as he gets inside, what little warmth here is embracing him like an old friend.

But he only shakes off the cold for it to be replaced with more terror.

“T-truly,” he stutters now, something he so rarely does unless his speech is slurred by mind-numbing sedatives, by liquefied poison. He is at wits end. “It would be an inconvenience only, I have seen far worse and lived.”

“That is not much for reassurance,” Enjolras says, lips quirked slightly in amusement, though his eyes flicker to the blood on Grantaire’s face, the cut over his nose, and he almost wants to laugh, because surely he is ugly enough already without Enjolras, of all people, to see him with swollen skin, face like an angry canvas of colours.

“No, but I…”

“Please, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice imploring, and he wants to throw himself at this man’s feet and say _yes, of course, anything_ , because he rather thinks he has never heard Enjolras say _please_ to him before, or, if truth shall come out, ask him for anything at all.

“Sit,” Enjolras pushes him down gently, not to the lone chair standing at the worn desk by the window, but onto the bed, the mattress soft, an instant relief for his aching muscles: beatings and the cold of the air in January goes a long way to tense up even the most relaxed of men.

Grantaire is a cynic: Judgment day is his tomorrow, and he welcomes it with open arms. He is as relaxed as any man can be.

Every part of his body is protesting as he keeps tensing, watching the curve of Enjolras’ back as he lights up a few candles, as he bends over to pick up the supplies Combeferre must have left behind, and Judgment day cannot come quick enough.

The light helps to show what the darkness of night hid, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch away as he walks back over to Grantaire, asserting his… his injuries. His slashes and cuts. His marring.

“We should probably clean the cuts,” he says, and Grantaire can do nothing but follow the commands of that voice: he has hardly even reached out to take the damp wash-cloth in Enjolras hand, before the other man is doing it for him, cradling Grantaire’s own hand again, being careful in a way he never is, not with anyone and certainly not with Grantaire.

“What was it about?”

“E-excuse me?”

“The fight,” Enjolras’ voice is oddly patient as he switches to Grantaire’s other hand, running the cloth over skin that is too thick and not thick enough: sparks shoots through him as the cloth shifts and the tip of a finger glides across the back of his hand. It is too much. Too much for someone who had never expected it.

“Oh, ah, it was… you know, I’ve rather forgotten,” he grins widely, hoping his eyes are shining enough that it appears to be from a drink: truth is, he hasn’t forgotten. Truth is he does not know: truth is he had started a fight for nothing, because in cold, January nights, that is sometimes the only way to feel alive.

The only way to keep warm.

Enjolras sends him a disbelieving look.

“You could have gotten seriously injured, and you do not even remember what for?”

“No.”

“You are unbelievable,” Enjolras gets out, pressing the cloth a bit too hard against a gash that Grantaire does not remember getting. He sounds angry. He is angry.

“Why, thank-you, dear Apollo.”

He stills, the hand holding Grantaire’s shifting until his fingers are circling his wrist, imprisoning it, thumb sweeping over the skin that is peeking out from his sleeve. They sit like that only for a few seconds, until Grantaire finds he cannot do it, and takes the cloth from Enjolras, wiping the now crusty blood on his own face away. Enjolras does not shift his grip on Grantaire’s wrist, but his eyes come back to his face.

“You should not be so foolhardy,” he quietly says. “They were two against one: they could have easily killed you.”

“Not easily!” Grantaire protests, the remains of his pride prickling in irritation. He had beaten them, and though he has evidence on his body to show for the fight, it had not been a particularly tough one. He had known from the start that he was going to win.

It had rather taken some of the fun out of it.

“They could have killed you,” Enjolras amends, and he sounds angry now. “Or merely left you there, too weak to move. You would have been dead before the night was over: this is no time to find oneself on the street.”

“Oh, but I had an angel sent from above to save me, did I not?” Grantaire grins now, mockingly. “You were there.”

Enjolras looks furious. “And if I hadn’t been?”

“Truth be told, I had not expected you to save me either way, present or not.”

This is why he needs to drink: because when he doesn’t, the truth slips out.

He had just never known the truth could make his Apollo look so devastated.

“You think I would not help you?”

“I do not think you a man who would abandon anyone to die, but I am not under any delusions as to my own usefulness and the extent someone would go… nay, the extent someone _should_ go to ensure that I stay on this Earth. There is rather little to keep me here.”

One of the candles goes out, leaving the room in half-darkness, new shadows falling over Enjolras’ face. The cloth slips from Grantaire’s fingers onto the floor. He doesn’t notice.

“Is that the truth of it?” Enjolras asks. “You have nothing you wish to live for?”

“We have reached dangerous territory,” Grantaire informs him. “I do believe it is time to turn back.”

“Answer me,” Enjolras demands.

“And if I refuse?”

Enjolras’ jaw clenches in anger, eyes a lightning-storm crossing the sky on a night in January.

“Answer me,” he repeats, and Grantaire thinks he almost hates him, though in truth it is himself he hates, for having only so many refusals to give this man.

“If you have to ask,” he says. “I would take you for someone rather blind.”

Enjolras does not shed his look of anger, but it softens with sadness and something… something rather like relief. He moves one hand to cup the back of Grantaire’s head, and he almost involuntarily leans back into the touch.

“I am not blind,” Enjolras says and pulls him forward, lips just barely brushing over a bruise on his cheek: Grantaire’s eyes fall closed. He rather thinks he is dreaming.

He almost convinces himself that he is when Enjolras mouth closes over his, still slow and careful even as one of his arms fits around Grantaire’s waist, pressing him closer: it hurts. It hurts because he is bruised and battered, and it hurts because it is not real.

It is still not real when Enjolras presses him down on his back, mouth finding new pathways down his neck, over his collar-bone. Someone is making a needy sound in the back of their throat, and Grantaire is fairly certain it is him, and he would be embarrassed except it makes Enjolras grip him tighter, the man almost forgetting to be careful with broken skin and broken souls. It’s not real.

“It cannot be,” he says it aloud, and Enjolras must understand the meaning behind the phrase of nonsense, because he moves upwards again, eyes flaming as his grip tightens.

“Disputing my existence is something I find rather insulting, Grantaire,” he growls and Grantaire whimpers and nods and mutters an apology that is swallowed between hungry mouths – he closes his eyes again, and lets Enjolras push his jacket aside, open buttons and discard clothes that had been meant to keep out the cold of January, but is now replaced with skin from the sun-god himself, and what could be warmer than that, more burning, as Enjolras discards his own shirt, pressing their bare skin together as if he too has been yearning for that sensation for too long.

“This cannot be from tonight,” Enjolras suddenly remarks, fingers fluttering around a large purple and green bruise decorating his ribs, afraid to touch. Grantaire almost laughs.

“That is from two nights ago. It was snowing: I merely needed blue paint, and I could have made your beloved flag on the snow.”

“I would rather not have you bleed just for that.”

“You would have us all bleed for it,” Grantaire says, and he does not sound bitter anymore, merely resigned, because that is what he has become. Perhaps the anger will come back later, he thinks. Perhaps it will meet with him in his final moments: he’d once heard some nonsense about final moments being moments of peace. He knows he is not getting that.

Enjolras goes still above him, though his hand is still stroking just near the bruise, hovering at the edges, afraid to touch and hurt, yet curious about the texture of such broken skin. Grantaire would tell him to go ahead and hurt him, if he would just kill the silence now. He cannot stand the silence. Enjolras is never silent: when he is it is a cruel reminder of what will one day happen. One day soon.

“I would. That is no secret. But I rather thought you were not so willing to bleed for a cause you don’t believe in,” Enjolras admits. “In fact, I had found much comfort in that thought.”

“I do not understand.”

Enjolras leans forward again. “You accused me of being blind earlier,” he says. “Allow me to return the insult.”

His breath hitches in his throat. “I… I rather wish you would not mock me.”

Enjolras frowns, eyes shining. “And if I am not?”

He smiles sadly. “Then it seems I have had it confirmed that this is a dream.”

He is not expecting the sudden pain as Enjolras digs his fingers into the bruise: he hisses and bucks under him, tears welling in his eyes.

“You…!”

“As I said, it is rather insulting to deny the existence of someone right before you,” Enjolras’ tone is lecturing now, before it turns soft again. “Do you believe you are still dreaming?”

“Scholars would have us think it wouldn’t hurt so damn much!”

Enjolras lips curve into a smile. “I am sorry,” he says, moving his hand to let his fingers shift through Grantaire’s curls instead, a motion that is oddly pleasurable: but then again, Enjolras is touching him. It is still surreal. “Do you still think me a ghost of your own imagination?”

“No. But I do not know how else you could be here,” he admits, because he has no defences left, and because he feels warm and safe like he hasn’t since he was but a child, and because Enjolras is looking at him like the moon must look at the starts, inexplicable fondness, excitement that it has reached its brethren at last.

He wonders if the moon has farther to go when it is very cold: if its movements turn stiff and stilted – if the stars are warm enough to help it on its way, or if they too stay where they are because they have frozen in the sharp winds of January.

“No more words then,” Enjolras mumbles, kissing him shortly. “I would rather show you the truth of this instead, if you would permit me to do so.”

Grantaire lets out a startled laugh. “I rather think you have never asked my permission for anything.”

“As you have not of me,” Enjolras trails slim fingers down the side of Grantaire’s face, as if that is something to be transfixed by, as if his mouth is gaping open, his lips flushed red because of the man in his bed. It is the truth, but Grantaire finds it easier to pretend that it isn’t: he wonders if the moon is ever blinded by the sun. If that is why it trails so far behind, with only stars for company.

“There is nothing I would ask of you,” Grantaire says, because it is the truth: he could never ask this man for anything. He can only hope to be useful, one day.

“If you only would ask, I would give you almost anything,” Enjolras sounds breathless as he says it, though he has all the breath he needs, and the tears from before spill down Grantaire’s cheeks, threatening to make his vision blurry: Enjolras wipes one away with a swipe of his thumb and kisses Grantaire again, though not before asking permission, which he gives freely.

They stay locked like that for long, until Grantaire forgets the pain in his skin and bones, forgets the aching of his limbs, and until they are both flushed with warmth and desire: Grantaire breaks away from the kiss, disbelief in his voice.

“Almost anything I would ask of you?” he repeats the words spoken by the man above him, and Enjolras nods.

“Anything within my power.”

“Well, you have rather made your own wishes quite clear, if my state of undress is anything to go by,” Grantaire cannot help but comment and he is reward with laughter more melodious than he remembers it to be, the few times he has heard it in the past.

“I apologize, it does seem like I got rather too enthusiastic.”

“I would have you take that apology back. I would say there is nothing to be sorry for here.”

Enjolras smiles and kisses him again. “I am glad our agreement has settled with you. You are asking me for something already.”

“I never said I agreed to it.”

Enjolras snorts. “Ah, my mistake, I merely assumed that you did seeing how you took advantage of your side of the bargain.”

“And what about your side?” Grantaire mumbles, looking at him. “If this is to be a fair bargain, I rather think you should get something out of it as well?”

For some reason he cannot discern, his words make Enjolras look sad again, eyes almost lost. “I would have you like this,” is all he says, and Grantaire forgets how to form words, so he only nods and lets himself be pressed flush against Enjolras, as the other man tries to devour him again, and it is hot and slow and too much, always too much, Enjolras bending Grantaire beneath him and somehow fitting perfectly – Grantaire forgets that he is injured, forgets the tiredness working through his skin and forgets that he is sober. He gets drunk on Enjolras instead.

And if his own hands reach up to grip tightly, desperately, at the other man, with little intention of ever letting go, then who can truly blame him?

It gets cold in January after all, but the sun sheds warmth enough to keep his blood flowing, at least for tonight.

 


End file.
